Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.
Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.
[it’s real when they say it]
The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.
“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”
A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.
“Come on, don’t be like that, let her play with you”
Use lipstick
to make people like you
CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.
a type of speech
MINUTIAE
it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.
returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free
There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.
You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.
The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.
[it’s real when they say it]
A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.
Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.
“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”
Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.
“Come on, don’t be like that, let her play with you”
it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.
returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free
The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.
Use lipstick
to make people like you
CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.
a type of speech
MINUTIAE
There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.
You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.
an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage
The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.
You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.
Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.
Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.
Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature?
You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.
Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.
[it’s real when they say it]
A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.
“Come on, don’t be like that, let her play with you”
Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.
“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”
it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.
returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free
Use lipstick
to make people like you
an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage
You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.
Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.
Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.
There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.
You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.
The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.
Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.
The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.
Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.
Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature?
You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.
A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.
[it’s real when they say it]
“Come on, don’t be like that, let her play with you”
Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.
“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”
Use lipstick
to make people like you
it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.
There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.
You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.
Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.
A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.
[it’s real when they say it]
“Come on, don’t be like that, let her play with you”
Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.
“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”
it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.
returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free
Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.
an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage
The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.
Use lipstick
to make people like you
You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.
[it’s real when they say it]
Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.
Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.
“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”
Use lipstick
to make people like you
A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.
“Come on, don’t be like that, let her play with you”
it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.
There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.
returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free
an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage
You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.
You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.
visualize the voice of thought.
think the image of the voice.
provoke destiny. play.
from chance, from the sigh.
understand the force that links
the image to the name.
the name is an image.
the image is a verb.
play. nothing is chance.
destiny is a game.
everything is destiny.
—